Like One of the Family

by Nesta Tuomey

  When Fernando had deposited them at the apartment block he placed their cases on the ground and turned and shook hands with each of them, politely bestowing a smile on Teresa, who was plainly bedazzled by the assured young Spaniard.

  ‘I hope you will not hesitate to call upon my family if you are ever in need,’ he told them formally. He looked at Claire as he spoke and she felt that he was somehow singling her out and felt sudden disquiet. Oh God, Claire thought in despair, why must she always be so melancholy?. She was here to enjoy herself. Didn’t she deserve to like anyone else?

  Soberly, she returned the Spaniard’s farewell and turned away. She was very quiet as she went in out of the sun and lifted her case up the stone steps.

  ‘What a hunk,’ Sheena said, taking the steps at a run and carelessly bumping her trollied case after her. She passed them all out and arrived breathlessly at the apartment door, minutes before them. She delved in her bag for the key and went ahead of them inside.

  ‘Wow!’ her voice floated back to them. ‘This is great... really something.’

  Although Jane and Terry had enthusiastically, and at length, described the furniture and decor, none of them were prepared for the sumptuousness of the apartment, from the richness of the glowing teak in the living-room and bedrooms to the tiled perfection of the bathroom. They clattered about looking into the presses and exclaiming over everything. Teresa just stood inside the door and looked about her with her mouth dropped open. ‘Never in all my life!’ she kept repeating. ‘By God! This is better than the Gresham Hotel.’

  Sheena laid immediate claim to the biggest bedroom, Teresa having assured her that she was just as happy to sleep in the small room, and plonked her case on the woven matting before bouncing boisterously on the wide bed. ‘Who knows?’ she joked. ‘I might get lucky.’

  Claire grinned dutifully with a desolate, hollow feeling inside. Would she never stop aching for Terry? Even now the thought of him brought a lump to her throat.

  ‘That reminds me,’ Sheena looked at her thoughtfully. She snapped open her case and burrowed beneath her underclothes. When she turned around she was holding an envelope in her hand. ‘Terry asked me to give you this. Never thought of it till now.’

  The letter lay in Claire’s hip pocket until she had unpacked her clothes and put them away in the louvered press. While Sheena and Ruthie went out to buy milk, Teresa bustled about the kitchen, exploring her territory. After the girls had returned and boiled water in a saucepan for coffee and the four of them sat on the balcony sipping the hot liquid and nibbling crusty rolls, Claire was conscious of it all the time against her hip.

  She toyed with the idea of never opening it, because then she would be no better off but certainly no worse. When she had given full rein to her imagination and exhausted every possibility, both good and bad, she went into her room and extracted the letter from the envelope. It was written on a piece of jotter paper and folded in half. ‘Dear Claire, I’m off to Shannon tomorrow where I’ll be stationed for the next couple of months. I called the other night but you were out. You can contact me for the first week in the evenings between 7 and 8 o’clock at Crowley’s pub. Number below. I know what you said the last time we met...’

  She heard Ruthie calling her name and quickly turned over the paper. Halfway down the page it was signed, ‘Love, Terry.’

  She felt herself growing dizzy and light-headed. She thought it was the combination of the heat and the strong coffee.

  She glanced back and read,’...but I hope you’ll ring. Otherwise, I’ll believe you really meant it when you said you didn’t ever want to see me again.’

  Had she really said that?

  Ruthie came in the door and Claire saw that she was wearing her swimsuit and carrying a shrimp net she had bought earlier. Sheena must have received this precious letter over a week ago and left it all this time, lying in her half-packed case. She felt herself getting dizzier and sicker.

  ‘Clairey,’ Ruthie cried. ‘You’re not listening! We’re all going down to the beach for a swim and would you please hurry up and get a move on.’

  The clattering roar of the Dauphin filled Terry’s head and he moved his left hand up and down, twisting it to control the collective and throttle, while his right hand moved in small circles, controlling the cyclic. Below, the slaty waves of the Atlantic lashed the bow of the patrol ship, and above the sky was equally grey and ferocious.

  For a moment it was like his first time in a helicopter and all parts wanted to go their own way but gradually Terry got control, and the machine gently rose and fell in the same spot. He pressed his feet on the spongy pedals, turning the machine back towards the patrol ship and held it in a hover fifty feet above the main deck.

  ‘Okay, bring us down lower and keep us pointed at the main mast,’ the instructor’s nasal voice sounded in his headphones.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Terry grabbed the collective stick in his left hand and at once the helicopter shot up to sixty feet. He knew he was making a poor showing but his concentration kept wandering. Claire hadn’t even bothered to answer his letter or make contact with him. Every night in Crowley’s waiting like a dope, Terry thought, feeling his anger swelling again.

  He panicked and overcontrolled as the deck of the ship rushed up. Damn! He had pulled up too hard, causing them to pop back up in the air.

  ‘Try and keep us over the same spot, laddie.’

  ‘Sorry!’ Terry grunted, the sweat running down his neck.

  The instructor took over the controls. ‘I’ve got it,’ he said. The machine drifted down twenty feet and pointed towards the mast of the ship again. Terry felt a fool.

  ‘Okay, it’s all yours. Think you can take us down?’

  Terry nodded grimly. He would or die in the attempt. He looked for a place to approach, then aimed the machine into the wind, to reduce groundspeed on touchdown. When they were thirty feet from the chosen spot on the main deck and the instructor had not taken over the controls, Terry knew he was going to let him go the whole way. He glided down in autorotation and concentrated on landing straight ahead, into the wind. He hit the deck, skidded a few yards and came to a halt.

  ‘Great bloody man, McArdle,’ the instructor was smiling openly.

  ‘What do you mean, sir?’

  ‘I thought you handled that like an ace.’

  ‘But I was all over the place, sir.’

  ‘That’s what I mean... an ace arsehole.’

  Terry flushed and turned his head away to complete his Landing Checks.

  Claire walked up and down the cool aisles of the supermercado carefully selecting items from the well-stocked shelves and placing them in her trolley. It was a job that invariably fell to her in the fortnight since they had arrived in Spain and one she secretly relished. Sometimes Teresa Murray went shopping with her and, for the sake of politeness, Claire pretended to be glad of her company, but really she preferred to be on her own. Teresa was kindness itself but she was gregarious by nature and kept up a continuous flow of conversation, mostly about her extended family and the amazing doings of her grandchildren. Claire found it exhausting and was just as glad whenever Teresa admitted to feeling ‘a bit lazy, love.’ There was no denying her presence saved Claire a lot. Normallyin Jane’s absence she was lumbered with most of the housekeeping chores but with Teresa doing the cooking and cleaning Claire’s only duty on this holiday was the difficult task of budgeting their allowance to pay for their food. She had even managed to make it stretch to a train trip to Barcelona on the previous weekend to see the Picasso exhibition and was hoping that soon they might all attend a bullfight in Malaga. This was something she had taken responsibility for since the days of their summer holidays in the seaside cottage. Claire told herself she didn’t really mind and accepted that in Spain Sheena’s prime consideration was to achieve an all-over tan. Her bottom was already ‘muy tostado’, and when she was not on the balcony sunbathing nude, she spent her time on the beach in a skimpy sun-dress, lazily sketch
ing or making pastel studies of children and animals. Teresa was fond of sunbathing too and she often shared the balcony with Sheena. With the two of them spread out there was not much room for anyone else but Claire did not grudge the older woman her relaxation. Some days Claire and Ruthie would leave Teresa to her sunning and stroll down to join Sheena on the beach. When the sand became too hot to sit on, the three of them would climb the stone steps to sit under the coloured awnings of a beach front cafe and sip naranjada or cafe con leche.

  Now as Claire popped a jar of apricot preserve into the trolley, she reflected that she had got out of the habit of counting on Sheena to do anything other than eat the food she bought. She was the one who accompanied Ruthie to visit their old friends at Hotel Murillo and, while the little girls played happily together, lingered near them in the pool or lay dreaming under the trees. Ignacio was as doting as ever and insisted upon Ruthie and herself, and Teresa when she accompanied them, staying to lunch or tea, He was always urging them to sample different dishes on the pretext of requiring their opinion. Claire had indulged herself so much with his delicious tortillas that she feared she must have put on at least half-stone weight since coming to Spain.

  Claire took her place in the queue behind a Spanish matron who was checking through what looked like her week’s shopping. Leaning on her trolley, she glanced about her, enjoying the foreignness of the scene and inhaling the attractive scents wafting her way. She loved the way Spanish people smelled as though they had stepped straight out of a delicately perfumed bath. As she was thinking this a stout, middle-aged man, carrying a basket of groceries, stood in front of her..

  She debated whether or not to say anything. After all, she was a stranger in this country. But something deliberately arrogant in his manner offended her, however, and although she was usually so gentle and accepting, she found herself taking issue.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, the words coming out almost of their own volition. ‘I was before you.’

  He stared at her haughtily, then tried to bluster his way out of it, but she stood her ground and after a moment he sullenly withdrew to the end of the queue. That’ll teach him, Claire thought, moving into his space. She looked around and met the amused eyes of a young Spaniard standing behind her.

  ‘You are to be congratulated,’ he told her with an infectious grin. Claire self-consciously returned his smile, as she packed her groceries into bags.

  ‘Please allow me.’ He was at her elbow, taking two weightier bags from her. ‘Contrary to your experience the Spanish are not an inconsiderate people.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Claire said doubtfully, wondering if she should try and take them back. She preceded him out of the store and began walking quickly towards the apartment.

  ‘Guapa,’ he said approvingly. He walked beside her and quietly studied her. ‘You are English?’

  She shook her head. ‘Irish.’

  ‘Ah yes... Irlanda.’

  As they arrived at the entrance to Las Cicadas, Claire looked for Fernando’s car, but there was no sign of it. The Spaniard went on into the building and, ignoring the lift, began climbing the stairs. There was nothing else Claire could do but follow him. He was about to continue on to the next floor when she called him back.

  ‘This is it. Now may I have my bags?’

  ‘Certainly.’ He laid them carefully on the ground and stepped back with a smart half-salute, causing Claire’s heart to lurch painfully. The military action was so reminiscent of Terry she could have wept. She bent her head and rummaged in her bag for the key. When she raised it again the Spaniard was regarding her curiously.

  ‘My name is Alejandro,’ he was saying. ‘And yours?’

  ‘Claire.’

  He smiled, showing even white teeth then turned and ran lightly down the steps. She was moved to stare down the stairwell and, after a few moments, saw his dark head appear briefly. She stepped back hurriedly as he twisted his head to look up. Then he was gone. She shrugged and went into the apartment.

  The following afternoon Claire and Teresa came down the hill from Hotel Murillo with Ruthie and Adela. The little Spanish girl carried a soft leather duffle bag over her shoulder. Ignacio had readily given permission for his daughter to stay overnight and now the two little girls skipped along, delighted at the proposed treat.

  ‘Would you look at them,’ Teresa nudged Claire. ‘Happy as Larry the pair of them.’

  Claire nodded and smiled.

  ‘That little Adela is the spittin’ image of my Sara’s eldest girl,’ Teresa went on affectionately. ‘Stand to look at her you would.’

  Claire was amused. Teresa’s grandchildren were her favourite topic.

  ‘Please let me hold Carmencita,’ Ruthie begged now. The huge rag doll was attired in Spanish national costume and the children were taking it in turns to carry her. The two of them collapsed into fits of the giggles at the way the doll’s head-dress flopped over her eyes.

  ‘She is drunk!’ Adela said in glee. ‘Too much sangria.’

  ‘Poor Carmencita,’ sighed Ruthie. The minute the children got in the apartment door they ran to prepare her for her siesta. Adela pulled out an embroidered lawn nightie from her bag and, clucking fondly like two little mother hens, she and Ruthie robed the doll and laid her tenderly on a pillow.

  ‘Shh... she is sleeping.’ Adela put her finger to her lips, as she backed out of the darkened room. ‘Tonight she will dance flamenco.’

  Claire smiled at the pair of them, glad to see them in such good spirits. She had been a little worried in case Adela might be bored without the distractions she was used to in her father’s luxurious hotel, but Adela was a sunny, unspoilt child and was thoroughly enjoying the novelty of the visit.

  ‘Come and see my kitten,’ Ruthie proudly invited her and, while Teresa was busy getting out the iced limonada and fancy biscuits, they went on to the balcony. To Claire’s relief there was no shortage of cats visiting the apartment to succeed the tortoiseshell kitten from the previous summer.

  As Claire sat on her bed and picked up a book, there was a ring at the door. She opened it and found Fernando outside.

  ‘Ah, Claire.’ Fernando’s face was transformed by smiles at the sight of her. ‘I cannot stay long. I came only to invite you to tea at my house tomorrow. My mother intended you should visit before this but she has not been well. So! It is arranged. You will come?’

  Claire nodded.

  ‘Can Adela come too?’ Ruthie asked eagerly. The little girls had come running at the sound of the bell.

  Fernando bent towards the Spanish child. ‘You would like to come, Adela?’

  ‘Con mucho gusto, Señor.’

  ‘Muy bien.’ Fernando turned smiling back to Claire. ‘So, I shall call for you at three o’clock.’ He smiled mischievously. ‘All of you. Your chaperone too.’

  ‘Hasta luego.’

  ‘Ah, you are learning fast. Hasta luego.’ Fernando gave them a small wave and was gone. Claire closed the door thoughtfully after him.

  ‘Let’s go and meet Sheena,’ she suggested to the little girls and they ran to get their swimsuits and towels.

  Calling goodbye to Teresa, who had her feet up dozing in the sun, they set off for the beach. Sheena was waiting for them, her sunbathing and sketching done for the day. She was amused by Fernando’s invitation,

  ‘What did I tell you,’ she chuckled. ‘He wants you to meet his mother.’

  ‘All of us,’ Claire stressed, but Sheena laughed and said that was only camouflage.

  They sat chatting while the little girls played on the sand and swam, and then they all left the beach and went to their usual cafe for drinks.

  Sheena gave their order to the waiter, who grinned and eagerly went to do her bidding. As always, she had lost no time in enslaving the male population. She had been disappointed but philosophical when Fernando had plainly showed his preference for Claire, and although she still practised her charm on him, it was merely a reflex action, ‘Will you make me a pi
cture of Carmencita, please,’ Adela asked her politely. Sheena good-naturedly took up her sketch pad and obliged.

  She was engaged in shading in the costume and assuring Adela that the next would be in colour, when a shadow fell across the table and the girls looked up to see two Spaniards smiling down at them.

  ‘Hola, Claire,’ one of them said.

  With a start, Claire recognised the young man she had met at the supermarket. She returned his greeting, conscious of Sheena’s amazed stare. Whereupon Alejandro indicated the chairs about the table, and Claire had no choice but to invite him and his companion to sit down. Sheena regarded them both with bright interested eyes.

  ‘You are an artist?’ Alejandro bent to look at her sketch.

  Sheena grinned and nodded.

  ‘Are portraits very expensive?’

  ‘Special rate for good-looking men,’ Sheena said cheekily.

  Alejandro’s was slightly older than Alejandro, perhaps in his early thirties. Tall and well-built, with black hair spiking across his forehead. He murmured something to Alejandro and when the younger man responded with a laugh, he fell silent again and stared so intently at the girls that Claire was embarrassed. To cover her confusion she turned to Alejandro.

  ‘It’s a portrait of Carmencita,’ she explained, holding up Adela’s doll, ‘who, by the way, dances flamenco.’

  ‘Ayee, I have always wanted to meet such an accomplished young lady.’ Alejandro took hold of the doll’s hand and solemnly shook it, much to the delight of the two little girls. ‘And speaking of flamenco,’ he turned to Claire, ‘would you and your friend care to accompany us to a show?’

  ‘We’d love to.’ Sheena accepted excitedly. ‘We’ve been longing to see flamenco, haven’t we, Claire?’

  Claire nodded, but with less enthusiasm. ‘Yes, we have.’

  ‘But you do not know anything about us,’ Alejandro said astutely, ‘and you are not sure if it is correct to accompany two Spaniards to a show without being formally introduced?’